Tale of Hal
by Xeno Major
Summary: Another atmospheric reentry. Another bad landing. Another situation. John doesn't know what to make of this place, but he might as well make himself at home. After all, he'll be stuck here for a while. At least they have dogs. Halo/Fable
1. Chapter 1

The Master Chief was just about to enter the cryo tube, when a sudden tremor shook the _Forward Unto Dawn_, the groaning of the metal hurting John's ears.

"Cortana?" the Chief calmly asked, as he hung onto a nearby support beam.

"Analyzing," Cortana responded. "It appears that the _Dawn_ is being drawn into a nearby planet's gravitational field." she explained quickly.

The Chief cocked his head to one side. "I thought you said we could be drifting for a while." he stated, as more tremors wracked the hull of the ship.

"The _Dawn_ was cut in half; I couldn't detect anything on the cut side." Cortana replied irritably.

"Well, what do you suggest I do?" the Chief inquired, as he started floating through the cryo bay's door.

"Wait a moment…" Cortana murmured, as she quickly scanned all the remaining part of the _Dawn _held.

"Well, the bad news is that we don't have an escape pod, a docked Longsword or Pelican." Cortana said.

"And the good news?" the Chief asked.

"I think you can survive another atmospheric reentry, but if you get knocked out…" Cortana trailed off. The Chief kicked off a bulkhead, passing by a sign the read "Escape Pods."

"Chief?" Cortana meekly asked. The Master Chief paused, hanging onto the doorway with only one hand. Inside the escaped pod bay, Cortana's holographic avatar popped up on a holo-monitor.

"I want you to know… if I don't make it… I just want you to know…" Cortana started to say, as the Chief reached the escaped pod bay, where a series of blast doors covered the empty spots where the pods had occupied.

Cortana abruptly stopped talking, as the Chief secured himself to a wall with a line of cord.

"Yes, Cortana?" the Master Chief asked. Cortana simply sighed through the speakers.

"Chief…" Cortana whispered, as the Chief extended his hand towards the access port that housed Cortana.

"Chief… no. Don't take me with you." Cortana told him.

"Cortana, we have to go." the Chief replied, his voice brooking no argument.

"Chief… I still have access to some of the emergency thrusters. I'm going to use them to drive the ship into the ocean, as far away from you as I can." Cortana muttered face screwed in concentration, as the symbols on her body picked up speed, flashing red.

"I can glide to a safe point, away from the impact zone." Chief stated. It would not be hard, and he had once had to do just that, when the _Say My Name_ was destroyed over Azure VII.

"Chief, the reactor of the _Dawn_ was already damaged from the fighting above the Ark. The _Dawn _getting cut in half only made it worse. When this thing lands, there's a good risk everything around it for a one hundred kilometer radius will be gone. With luck, I can guide the _Dawn_ away from any sizeable population center, where the blast might be contained in the deep sea. A tsunami is a possibility, but I'm willing to bet that I can avoid fault lines, with detailed scans."

The Master Chief paused, his hand on the knot securing him to the wall.

"Might be contained?" he asked.

"It's better than letting this tub land on your head." Cortana fired back.

"You can just spin off a few subroutines to do that." John told her. Cortana looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"I can't, Chief. The Index is the pinnacle of Forerunner technology; it doesn't exactly come in a small package. I can't even begin to calculate how much it shortened my operating life. Add in the Covenant data I recovered from the _Ascendant Justice_… I've run out of time."

"Cortana, I'll need your help once I'm on the ground."

"Please Chief. Allow me this one, final favor." Cortana pleaded, as the Chief untied the coiled rope.

The Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan-117 glided to the blast door, which showed him a panoramic view of the planet, as a klaxon soundlessly began to blare and red emergency lights began to flash.

The planet spun out of view, as the first blast door cranked open slowly.

"John?" Cortana hesitantly asked.

"Yes?" he replied.

"Good luck." she said, as John stuck one hand fast into a handlebar.

He paused. Words alone could not express how he felt at this moment.

"…Thanks." John answered, as the last blast door finally opened. Air pressure had been lost right after the split from the Portal, but now gravity was returning. John began to feel a tug as it slowly tried to tease him out of the airlock.

John slipped out of the bay, watching, as the planet slowing grew larger. Despite her claims to the contrary, Cortana hadn't cut it close at all. He had maybe a little bit more time than his HALO jump back on Earth, though this time he was doing it without the shield. The MJOLNIR Mark VI wasn't created specifically for HALO jumps, but given how often Spartans had been forced to use them like that, both with Mark IV and Mark V, the scientists behind the Mark VI had tried to increase survivability in those scenarios.

As best as he could tell, he was heading straight for a mostly flat expanse of land. To the north were high mountains, to the south a deep, deep swamp. He checked again, but the closest large water body was far beyond him.

He boosted his gel-layers to maximum, locking up most of his movement. As he descended, the land rushing up to meet him, he spotted a tiny patch of blue, a lake.

His heart thudding loudly in his ears as the pressure grew, John directed himself as best he could at the tiny blue patch, aiming for the dead center, where it should be the deepest. The water tension could be safely ignored because of the armor, but if he hit solid rock the armor would most likely fail.

As John drew closer, he spotted a rough patch of grey and brown, possibly a city, but it was farther away, and he couldn't make out any details.

He drew closer and closer to the lake, and spotted a tiny brownish greenish dot in the dead center of the lake. He tried to alter his course, but it was too late. The G-force was too much, and he blacked out.

* * *

A meteor streaked across the sky, shedding debris as it shrieked past the worn path, causing the few people traveling the road to scatter in fear. The object passed them by, howling like a demon the whole time. It flew over the gypsy camp, and impacted on Bower Lake with a thunderous _BOOM!_ and a blinding flash of light.

The ground shook and heaved, up heaving trees and rocks, as the little island where Bower Tomb once sat was crushed, leaving a crater on the island, smashing the ancient mausoleum.

Unseen to those above, the object continued to smash through cavern and rock, until it impacted on a large underground lake, slowing it, but not stopping it. While slowed, it still cracked the ground open, and the water fell with the object, into a small underground stream, which quickly swelled in size. The deluge of water pounded through already weakened rock, stripping it away quickly.

* * *

It stopped It's planning, ceasing It's eternal labor, to consider the shaking of It's tomb. The earthquake subsided, and It relaxed, It's mind once again straying to the plots and plans that occupied It's mind. It focused on the trickling river to focus, happy for once to have the stream there.

Then a crack appeared in the cavern's rocky ceiling. Hesitant, puzzled, It extended the power of It's mind into the gap, studying it, and trying to determine the reason for the crack.

With a loud noise, a crackling, hissing noise, the crack enlarged, and water began to trickle from the crack, as the crack slowly widened.

Then, with a thunderous _CRASH!_ the roof caved in, and a roaring deluge filled the chamber, shocking It numb.

The water battered It against the wall that held It, and for the first time in It's eternal existence, It thought that It was about to be destroyed. But It's hold on the wall was firm, and It remained firmly anchored to the wall.

The water slowly filtered out with the small stream, slipping out with the cracks. As it did, it revealed a strange greenish object that It was sure had not been there before the earthquake. It examined the object with It's mind, marveling at the shape of it, the complexity of it. It almost looked like a man! Or maybe it was made to contain men? Was it some kind of wizard's golem? Perhaps a Summoner, remaining long after it's masters destruction?

_That's it, no more atmospheric entries!_

It recoiled in shock; there _was_ a man inside the object! It inspected the man inside, looking past the twisted metal, and found him to be as strange as the object itself. He was incredibly pale; he must've been an albino. Still, he bristled with muscles, and he must've been seven feet tall!

* * *

Sparrow walked down the old tunnel, as her dog raced forward to investigate the new smells he detected. Sparrow shook her head, but she was smiling. The rock beneath her shook, and she looked up in realization. A low rumbling echoed through the cavern, and imperfections in the rock shook off, chipping away as the rumbling grew louder.

Sparrow reflexively grabbed the rock wall beside her as the quake struck, her reactions saving her life, as the ceiling split and gave way in front of her. She stared in shock at the place where a moment before, she had been standing. The rock ceiling would have crushed her instantly, Hero or not.

* * *

John slowly regained consciousness; his raging head feeling like an over-enthusiastic Brute had whacked him with a Gravity hammer. John forced his sealed eyes open, and saw… nothing.

_Am I dead?_ He thought, but his head told him otherwise. He winced, and tried to figure out why he couldn't see anything. Nothing came to his mind, and he had almost resigned himself to his new existence, when he felt pressure on his chest. A second later, light filled his vision, blinding him. Something had ripped a jagged hole through his visor. A pungent, stale smelled assaulted his seldom-used nose, and he snorted. John blinked, and then glimpsed rocky shards on his chest. The boulder had gashed through his helmet, shattering in the process.

John tried to shove the boulder off him, but his arms would not move. At least, they wouldn't move easily. John struggled with all his might, and an incredibly loud screeching penetrated his ears. He was rewarded when the pressure on his chest was relieved.

John stopped pushing, but his arms stayed in position, not moving. John tried to see what the problem was, but the slashed helmet was obstructing his view. John pushed and pushed, eventually bringing his arms up to the back of his head. He slowly popped the seals on his helmet, and carefully removed it. He had almost gotten it off when pain flushed through his system, and his arms instinctively flexed, again slashing his face. He ripped the helmet off, and tossed it away, his agony rushing through his system like a rogue wave.

He lay there for a long time, blood pouring from the two cuts across his face.

* * *

Sparrow carefully slid through the narrow crack in the rockslide, as she continued to traverse the somewhat blocked tunnel. She shimmed across a narrow piece of rock, then hopped off it onto solid ground. She sighed, relieved to have crossed the dangerous cave-in with no injuries.

The sound of barking intruded on her relief, and she looked up, to see her dog, miraculously unharmed, wagging his tail in delight at her. She laughed, happy to see her beloved companion safe, and hugged him. The dog obligingly licked her face several times.

* * *

With a rush of nausea, John woke from his stupor. He tried to stand up, but couldn't move his arms and legs. He looked, and saw where he discarded his helmet. It was dripping with his blood. As he tried to move, he felt warm liquid matting his hair. With an unpleasant shock, he realized it was also his blood. How much had he bled?

He depressed the manual release buttons for his arm plates, pulling them off with a clatter. In a matter of minutes, he had discarded his armor plates completely. He shakily stood up, clad in only a thin black bodysuit. He grabbed the rock wall next to him, holding on to it dearly as his legs continued to shake uncontrollably, but to no avail. His legs gave out, and he smashed back down onto the ground.

He felt his arm and leg muscles contract, pulling themselves to the ripping point. Slowly, they relaxed, and John was able to stand, albeit shakily. He grabbed the rock wall with one hand to be sure.

His armor was ruined. The damage it had taken during that last charge to the Control Room must've damaged it beyond what he had thought initially. The plates were superheated by re-entry, but this was nothing new to MJOLNIR armor. The plates were a total loss, however. Without anything to shield him from the heat, as he had done back on Earth, the armor had taken much more of a beating; and unlike on Earth, he hadn't had the luck to land on a relatively soft section of ground. Smashing through solid rock, combined with already weakened armor and no shields, it was a wonder he had made it down alive.

His undersuit might be salvageable, but it was ripped in parts, the stress of landing cutting through the advanced composition of the weave. He'd take the undersuit with him, but he'd have to come back for to retrieve any of the mangled pieces.

He looked around, at the cavern. He wondered where the light was coming from briefly, then spied the hole in the ceiling that he made. The hole extended, a straight tunnel to the surface, with many tumbling bits of debris and a little stream descending from it. Unfortunately, he couldn't climb out through the hole, because the ceiling was a good hundred meters above him.

Troubled, he thought hard on how he could get out of the cavern, missing the hole behind him. He thought long and hard, but couldn't find a way out. Finally, a gust of wind blew out of the hole behind him, rippling the puddle of blood, but John didn't feel it. His skin was numb, the gel-layer of the armor must've been flattened by the pressure.

Finally, the rippling blood at his feet sunk in enough to alert him to the tunnels presence.

He slowly walked through the tunnel, trying to work out the kinks in his arms and legs, pausing to stretch as much as he could. He paused again to stretch his right leg, but as he did, he smacked his head on the low ceiling, knocking himself to the ground.

He hit the ground, and his body started shaking again. When it had stopped, John looked up at the tunnel. It had closed up with an earthquake some thousand years ago. There was no way that he was going to get through solid rock.

John sat down, breathing deeply as he lay back on the smooth, cold stone.

* * *

Sparrow crept through the tunnel, her old and rusty longsword clutched in her right hand, her left hand carrying a rusted flintlock pistol she had found after the cave-in. She edged around the bend in the tunnel, leading with the pistol extended in front of her.

A dark shape dropped from the ceiling and sped towards her, it's curved carapace gleaming in the strange, ever-present light…

Sparrow blasted the beetle out of the air with the pistol, then hurried to reload it as more beetles fell from the ceiling, some launching strange purple balls at her. She didn't know what they were, but she assumed that she didn't want them to touch her. They looked…chaotic. One struck her left hand, burning it. She cried out, dropping her smoking pistol and clutching her hand against her chest.

She swung her sword desperately, killing two of the beetles with one stroke as she fought on, moving quickly and slicing the beetles in two. They moved with a quick, skittering speed, but were surprisingly weak and fragile. All too quickly, Sparrow looked up from the last kill and discovered no more beetles to kill. What remained, however…

Sparrow hunkered down on her haunches, studying the oddly colored translucent orbs. They were green, blue, and yellow, and spun inside their little shells. Swirling spirals that twisted and weaved, intercrossing and connecting.

Sparrow shook her head, and slowly reached for the nearest orb, but to her astonishment, it moved towards her! With a startled cry, she leapt backwards, but all the orbs accelerated at her, moving with blinding speed until-

The orbs touched her. The second it impacted on her skin, Sparrow felt odd, almost as if someone had dropped her in a cold lake, then toweled her off just as fast. Her skin tingled, and even shone where the orbs had touched her.

Sparrow sighed, her muscles loosening, and her exhaustion fleeing. She got to her feet, and admired the shiny gloss over her hands, where she had attempted to block the odd balls. Her burnt hand no longer stung, but it was covered in an odd, reddish black burn mark, which extended up to her left elbow. Sparrow tore off a strip of her already tattered shirt, ripping away the sleeves and wrapping them around her palm, cutting niches for her fingers and tying it with a loose square knot at the end. She tugged on it, content that it would not cut off the blood flow to the arm, then moved on.

Sparrow retrieved her sword from where she dropped it, and moved off again, her dog following her loyally. She bent over once more, but quickly discarded the ruined pistol. It's barrel had been smashed against the rock by

* * *

_plip…..plip…plip…plip….._

John leaned heavily on the tunnels wall, reaching carefully out with his hand to prevent more bumps on the ceiling. He took smaller, slower steps, and began retracing his path to the larger cavern where he had awoken.

As he shambled along, he took stock of his situation. He was trapped underground, with his MJOLNIR armor completely trashed, and Cortana was gone, along with the _Dawn_ and all its weapons. He was injured, his body battered by the abused gel-layer of his armor, and slashed in parts where the armor had failed him. His muscles were tight, some possibly ripped or torn, and he was bleeding slightly from his face, where his disfigured helmet had gouged him.

As best he could see off of a still puddle of water, the cuts were slowly healing, the blood flow staunching off.

He was also completely nude, his skintight bodysuit stripped away. It lay back in the cavern, steaming from the heat of atmospheric re-entry. He had been forced to peel it off before it broiled him alive.

John spied a growing light ahead, and he entered the cavern.

Sitting down on a convenient outcropping of rock, John gazed around the room, resting. His eyes lingered on the shredded pieces of armor that littered the floor. Some had been more or less intact, but others, especially his helmet, had been mangled and ruined by the heat of reentry and the shock of hitting the little island at the center of the lake.

Spying an odd protrusion at the other end of the cavern, John strode over, carefully negotiating drops and small rises of the uneven floor. A little stream trickled by, but the larger splash marks meant that, presumably, more water had spilled in from a cavern that he had made a hole in.

The light dimmed as John left the illumination of the pillar of light that followed his entry hole. Somehow, though, there was a splotch of light by the odd protrusion, which looked like… a chest?

John stopped at the edge of the chest, glancing at the flickering, ethereal torches. How were they still burning? John shrugged off the question, leaving it in a pile with all the other unanswerable questions he had.

He reached down, fiddling with the latch. There was no keyhole, but instead a complex puzzle-lock. John studied it for a minute, then ripped it off the chest. Its worn bolts gave way instantly to the excessive force.

Moving his hands around for a good grip, John hefted, and the rusty hinges squeaked, protesting at the sudden force. The chest opened an inch, then two, then all the way, with an ear-achingly high-pitched screech.

John reached inside the chest, pulling up a pant-leg. He paused, considered the weirdness of finding clothes in a chest, then pulled on the pants. If anything, moldy old pants were better than completely exposed to the elements. The pants were followed by a hand-stitched shirt, which was too small for him. John discarded it without a thought.

The boots, luckily, were a good fit, and by ripping up the shirt, he had socks. Finally, John looked and found a fabric-covered lump at the bottom of the chest. He carefully unwrapped it, and found a pair of long knives, along with an odd seal. John regarded it, turning it in his hand, but decided it must be an official seal or stamp.

He slipped the two knives in a pocket, and the seal in another. He straightened his back, shut the chest, and looked up. Hidden directly behind the chest was an odd thing, like a porcelain kabuki mask. John made to move away from it, but something about it attracted his eyes again, and found himself staring at it.

There was just something interesting about that mask…

With steel will, John clamped down on his wayward curiosity and moved away from the mask. A second later, he felt a tingling in his gut. John dropped down behind the slight bump in the cave floor, taking cover as he tried to assess whatever had set him off.

After a tense minute, John relaxed, easing out of cover.

A slight tumbling of rocks sent him diving behind the rock again, this time focused on the noise from the left of the chest. Peeking his head around the rock, John saw a woman appear from a small crevasse some meters away from the chest.

No, not a woman. A girl, barely eighteen years old from the looks of it.

John considered his options. On one hand, he was lost underground, and this girl might know the way out. On the other hand, she could be an Insurrectionist hiding out on this world, away from the war. Weighing his choices, John hesitantly stepped out from behind the rise, raising his right hand as he did.

* * *

Sparrow noticed motion out of the corner of her eye, and she twisted, drawing her ancient sword quickly. She dropped into a loose fighting stance, spinning on her heel to see-

A man, clad only in dirty old pants and ragged boots, waving a hand at her.

Sparrow sighed, sheathed her sword, and approached the man. How a local gypsy had gotten through the locked door or the massive plunge into the underground pool was beyond her, but she would not put it past the inquisitive gypsies.

"How did you get down here?" she demanded, pointing at him. The man cocked his head quizzically, as if he couldn't understand her.

Sparrow groaned. Wonderful, she got a stupid one. She marched over to him, muttering under her breath about irritating curious gypsies.

Whoa… this guy was pretty tall, she thought as she got closer. Hell, he was a giant! He towered two full heads above her, his impassive face still regarded hers. His skin was pale, like one of those porcelain dolls traders sometimes brought, but this was offset by his brownish hair. He looked like one of those classical statues she sometimes saw, half-covered by vines, in the woods. The image was ruined by a sharp stink of something odd, a tangy smell that clung to the man.

This might take a while, she thought.

* * *

Idly, John considered the incredibly high odds of landing on a world where they spoke English. This girl was pointing at him with a sword, so they obviously couldn't be that advanced. And they were even Humans.

And how can one answer that question?

John gestured behind him, pointing up at the pillar of light. How _does_ one properly communicate 'atmospheric reentry' to a culture that still uses swords, for crying out loud?

He had a feeling that this would be an experience to remember.

* * *

Sparrow watched, silent, as the giant pointed at the pillar of light.

"You came down on a pillar of light." she deadpanned.

The giant sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and then he turned away, moving towards the pillar. With a half-hearted protest dying on her lips, Sparrow followed, quickly overtaking the pondering giant. She nimbly darted over cracks and crevasses, clambering up ledges as she navigated towards the luminescent column.

Making it to the top of a rise, she looked behind her at the giant, only to see him to her right, climbing up a twenty yard cliff with ease. Slow he may be, she thought, but he certainly wasn't weak. He found handholds quickly and efficiently, moving with a constant motion, a steady rhythm.

The Giant glanced over at her, hanging without effort by one hand. He shifted, hurling his arm over the ledge and hauling himself up with the barest hint of struggle.

The Giant was staring at her, Sparrow realized. While the male gypsies stared at her all the time, being gypsies and all, this stare was different. He did not focus on her bosom or her hips, but rather staring directly at _her_. Sparrow shifted her weight uneasily, a little flustered by this intense study shown by the giant.

Hurriedly, she slid down the gently slope of the rise, nearing the pillar promptly.

The pillar speared clear through the ceiling at an angle. As Sparrow looked closer, she quickly realized that the hole was actually pretty small, a little larger than a man.

The Giant appeared behind her, pointing at the ground around the base of the pillar. It was soaked with water and a lot of blood. Deformed bits of metal surrounded the whole, some stained from the blood. Little by little, the blood had pooled, and dripped drop by drop onto a lower level.

_plip...plip...plip...plip_

But _how_ had the giant made it down here? This blood was recent, and it could only be his, so…

Sparrow squatted down, inspecting one of the bent pieces of metal. It was torn, as if a Troll had pulled on opposite ends with all its might. She tried to lift it, but rapidly withdrew her hand. It was amazingly hot, burning her fingers instantly.

Sparrow next resorted to pushing the tiny slab of green with the broken tip of a stalactite, but the stubborn chunk refused to move. Sparrow fumed, then jabbed the bit of metal as hard as she could. The metal finally moved, barely.

Sparrow shook her head in dismay. A hole in the ceiling, and slices of some Guild-era armor that was both too hot to touch and too heavy to move without strain.

Who was this giant?

* * *

John watched the girl inspect the hole, then his armor with veiled amusement. He found her antics hilarious, like a child thrust into an armory full of shiny toys.

At last, when she had finished poking a calf plate with a shard of rock, she turned back to him. John sat down, patting the ridge beside him to invite the girl over. She looked hesitantly at him, then carefully sat down.

"This explains nothing. How did you get down here?" She inquired. John gazed once more at the hole, but the girl missed his subtle hint. John sighed again, ignoring the scent of ozone from reentry.

"There is a hole. I appeared." he explained. The girl shook slightly at hearing him speak, but she retained her confused appearance.

"You mean you came in through that hole?" she asked, her confusion clearing. "But how did you vault down from that height? You don't have any rope or climbing equipment or-"

John motioned for her to stop talking.

"It's not important right now." John dismissed. The girl seemed to be annoyed by that, but John cut her off.

"Can you tell me where the nearest center of government is?" he asked, moving off the shelf. The girl screwed up her face, concentrating deeply. John found it a little disconcerting.

"I'm going to Bowerstone later, if that's what you mean. You're welcome to come along." she answered.

That was most likely the city he saw on his way down. A city was better than a cave, so it was possible he could get some answers there. He nodded to the girl, who smiled.

"Spartan-117-" He started to say, before hesitating. "No. Just... Spartan."

"I'm Sparrow." she answered.

* * *

"First though, I have to find something down here." Sparrow told John, drawing her sword. John seemed to tense, but relaxed as she pointed it away from him. He inclined his head, and she took that as an agreement.

As soon as they left the great cavern, Sparrow's dog appeared from wherever he vanished to, barking happily. She bent down to greet him, ruffling his ears and talking silly. When she looked up at the giant, he had moved to the corner of the tunnel, peering past it for some reason. Sparrow briefly considered introducing her dog to John, but swiftly decided against it. He might be a cat person. She sighed, standing back up.

Sparrow marched ahead, intent on taking point, as she had a sword, but blinked as John moved around her gracefully. She snorted, then tried to take the lead again. John, bemused, kept moving, his longer legs allowing him to easily outpace the much shorter girl.

This kept happening, until the ceiling trembled and shower dirt on them. Sparrow backed away, protesting as she was pelted with rocks, but John froze, then spun into motion. She opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing, when she spotted the crimson carapaces of the giant beetles.

She drew her sword, diving forward with a slash that shifted into a stab, as John crushed a beetle into the ground with his boot. Sparrow was forced to narrow her options drastically, lest she accidently slash the giant.

Dispatching two beetles with more stabs, she watched he continue to crush beetles with huge stomps, sometimes snatching them out of the air to crush them against walls, or pinning them to the ground with a pair of knives.

Before she could move to help him, the last of the beetles were crushed. The multicolored orbs appeared out of their bodies again, and before she could draw them unto her, John reacted.

Unsure of the orbs, he dove backwards, rolling away from the blue orb closest to him. Sparrow chided him lightly, shaking her head as she drew the orbs to her left hand.

He watched her carefully, eyes narrowed, as the green and blue orbs sunk into her skin. He made no comment, but he observed her carefully as they moved forward again.

Sparrow found herself annoyed by this turn of events. Yes, she had previously doubted the orbs, but to have such as strong reaction? He was one twitchy gypsy, she thought.

* * *

The odd pair of giant and girl made their way through the underground tunnels, until they reached an obstacle.

John drew close to the door, running his hands over it. It was covered in dust, and had obviously been there for a while. While the dust attested to that, the workmanship of the odd, red metal was bizarre. John could identify no real lever or way to move the door.

Sparrow, meanwhile, stooped over the pedestal. It bore old inscriptions, and without another thought she translated them.

"The one of Hero's blood descended shall come to restore the Guild upended." she read, as the dog moved over to start digging in a corner of the room.

"Bad poetry." John muttered, returning from his inspection of the door. Just as he was about to explain the doors immobility, a small sphere broke off from above the door's arch, moving down to hover before them with an audible hum.

Sparrow and John backed away from it slowly. Sparrow was nervously gripping her sword, John already prepared to fight.

They stood that way for a while, until Sparrow cautiously stepped forward, and poked the sphere with her sword. The sphere bobbed downwards, dropping to the pedestal and sliding into a neat grove. The door at the other end of the hall lit up, its two sections splitting apart and rolling away into the walls.

John and Sparrow looked at each other suspiciously, then headed into the next tunnel. Sparrow held onto her dog's collar with her spare hand to keep him from running off again, while John ran a hand over the walls. The rocky, crudely excavated tunnel was slowly changing shape, morphing into a dusty old corridor.

"What do you thin-" Sparrow started to say, but John interrupted her, putting a finger to his lips. He moved forward, stalking surprisingly silently for someone his size. Sparrow trailed him after a few seconds, her sword in her hand now.

"Safe." John called back, his voice echoing oddly off the walls. Relieved, Sparrow moved up to meet up, finding him in a huge circular chamber.

Sparrow gasped at the sight. Old mosaics littered the walls, chronicling the deeds of old Heroes, while stained glass windows showed the dirt and rock around them, their majesty undimmed. She stepped forward and almost fell, John pulling her back hurriedly. The ground had given out in several spots, and deep holes filled those spots, seemingly without end. Sparrow kicked some rocks over the edge, hearing them clatter as they left.

"One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…" John counted out, listening for the return clack. After twenty Mississippi, he gave up. He sniffed, the earthy aroma of minerals and wet dirt slowly rising up from the crevasse.

Sparrow had already moved on, and had found another pedestal in the center of the room. John strode up the numerous steps, opening his mouth to ask about the pedestal when suddenly a column of white light erupted from it. An incredibly loud keening sound filled the air, like one thousand out of tune violinists playing their highest note.

Sparrow was trapped in the column, revolving slowly. Her eyes shut as though sleeping, she levitated above the shining pedestal. John flew up the last few steps, grabbing Sparrows hand and yanking her-

_Three disciplines of Strength, Skill, and Will, togeth-_

Sparrow was being gripped tighter by the beam of light. John's arm was now stuck in the beam, unmoving no matter how hard he tugged. He tried again, but the beam pulled him closer, drawing him into it.

_Skill, the attribute of ranged combat, where a good eye can change the course of a batt-_

Sparrow's eyes suddenly ripped open, and their usual chocolate brown was gone: her eyes now filled with light. Her hair changed colors, going from black to brown to blonde to platinum to red and more. Her skin tone shifted as well. She became as pale as John himself, before darkening to a deep, Arabian tan. She became a Chinook redskin, a bronzed Cuban, a deep pitch black from the depths of Africa. As John tugged, his skin too began to change, slowly altering, before John dug his feet into the stone pedestal, and launching with an almighty effort. The beam's grip on them loosened, before snapping, sending John and Sparrow flying towards the ground.

Time slowed, moving into Spartan Time, as John turned Sparrow around, positioning her on top of him. He tucked his chin to his chest, and braced himself for the impact.

They hit the cut stone and slid, bumping as they descended a stair. John's back ached from the impact, but his head had not whiplashed, and Sparrow looked okay. He set her down to his side, and rolled onto his chest. He wanted to lay there for a bit, but with a colossal force, climbed back to his feet. John staggered over to Sparrow.

Sparrow was on her chest, clutching her stomach, letting out low sobs of pain. The beam had flash heated her clothes, charring ends and almost setting them on fire. With no pause, John removed Sparrow's excess layers, leaving her on the cold stone floor in only her underwear. With luck, she would not be burned, but John was starting to doubt his luck.

While setting aside Sparrows ragged shirt, John paused. Maybe his retina was still seared from the burst of light, but Sparrow's hair looked pure white. Not a mere platinum or any other color you could get with a cheap dye, Sparrows hair had stayed shifted when John tackled her out of the beam. Blinking rapidly to help his retina recover, John stared at Sparrow's hair, but it was not changing back.

John didn't know of any procedure, even in the UNSC, that could instantly and permanently change your hair color that drastically, and he was a little worried. He rolled Sparrow over gently, and stopped dead in his tracks again.

Her skin's pigmentation had also changed, to a darker shade of brown. Moreover, all along her skin ran strange lines, bright blue. They ran along what John at first thought to be her nervous system. They shone similarly to the beam of light, but thankfully were much dimmer.

John's mind was abuzz with questions. What _was_ that beam? Did it somehow change her DNA? How on earth did it do that?

* * *

Sparrow groaned groggily as she prized her eyes open. A faded mosaic of mighty Heroes defending the peace of Albion greeted her, the legendary Hero of Oakvale leading the charge against his historic enemy, the mighty dragon.

Sparrow rolled her neck, wincing at the cracks. As she got to her feet, she looked around, but she couldn't hear her dog or John. However, a couple additional torches had been lit and placed around the chamber, brightening up the whole room. As Sparrow looked around, she spied an old desk on the side of the chamber. She rummaged through it quickly, finding a couple copies of the seal of Bower Tomb, as well as an old mirror.

Instinctively, she picked it up, checking that she hadn't been injured.

"_**AAAAAaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!**_"

* * *

John burst into the room, sweeping around the rifle he had found while exploring the caves. Sparrow's faithful dog followed him, growling menacingly. John quickly checked the room, but he found no threats. Slinging the rifle away, he moved over to where Sparrow sat, her back to the wall. John crouched down beside her, noting the fresh tears on her cheeks.

"What happened?" he inquired. "Who scared you?"

She was sobbing.

"What's wrong with me?" she demanded, sounding both scared and angry.

"There is nothing wrong with you, little Sparrow."

John leapt up, pulling up his rifle and aiming at an old woman who had appeared in a recess of the wall. She wore a long hood over her face, and voluminous robes. John glimpsed beneath the hood white, milky eyes. Without pausing, he drew a bead on the blind woman's head.

"Stop there or you _will_ be fired upon." he warned, moving away from Sparrow. The old woman cocked her head directly at him, something he found unnerving. How could she see where he was if she was…

With a _crack!_ and a burst of light, the old woman disappeared. John spun, searching for her again. He found her by Sparrow, consoling the girl quietly as she cradled Sparrow's face.

John strode forward, gripping the woman's arm and pulling her away from Sparrow.

"Ma'am, I must warn to-"

_whoosh_

John's vision spun, and he smacked down on the floor, several feet away from the woman, his rifle in her hands. He tried to get up, but his head ached, and stumped, he stayed down. After all, that old woman looked pretty deadly as well as-

Shaking his head rapidly, John sprang to his feet, a snarl at his lips.

"Stay out of my mind!" he growled, charging at the woman. Sparrow seemed to respond to this, pushing a hand out at him, a warning, John analyzed subconsciously.

With another _whoosh_, John couldn't feel the floor anymore. As he struggled, the invisible bonds around him tightened, raising him farther into the air. His arms quavered, then strung themselves away from his torso. His legs quickly followed. Sweat pouring down his face, John resisted as hard as he could, ignoring his aching muscles as he tried to rock his body around to break the devilish grip.

A hand extended as if to hold him, the old woman let a small smile appear on her face.

"Good boy," she mocked John, "Know when to be quiet in the presence of your betters."

John spat on the woman. Letting her smile slip for a moment, she wiped the spittle from her face.

"You ignorant peasant, you will-"

Sparrow latched onto the woman, tugging her arms down. The woman turned to Sparrow, her features softening, but Sparrow kept tugging until the woman relented, dropping John mercilessly to the ground with a _thump_.

"Don't do that to him." Sparrow ordered the bemused woman. "He's a good man."

"Little Sparrow, he could be one of Lucien's agents." the woman cooed, "He came out of nowhere and has given no explanation for his presence here."

* * *

Sparrow shook her head violently.

"He's a good man." she insisted.

Sighing, the woman stepped aside. Sparrow crawled over to where Spartan lay.

"You alright?" she asked, her eyes betraying her concern. She looked almost comical, with her new features and her height.

The stranger grunted an affirmative, slowly moving into a sitting position. He gave the old lady a hard stare from floor.

"Who is she?" he asked. Sparrow glanced over at the woman, now doing something to the pedestal in the center of the chamber.

"She's Theresa." Sparrow answered, absentmindedly moving a strand of hair away from her face. "She took me in after Lucien tried to kill me. She's the closest thing I have to a mother."

John mulled this over in his head. He had just attacked her mother figure? Well, another part of him thought critically, she had deserved it.

"Why did she attack me?" he asked.

"You threatened her!" Sparrow protested, rising to defend Theresa.

"Not unduly." John responded, continuing. "All she needed to do was identify herself before me and I would have let her pass. I will not let an unidentified person near an injured comrade."

"But you can trust her!" Sparrow replied, her anger rising.

"But at the time, that was not clear." John replied calmly, his tone cool.

Theresa watched this exchange from the side, looking up from the now-reactivated Cullis Gate. Sparrow marched away from John with a huff of irritation, coming before Theresa.

"What is this place?" she asked Theresa, trying to ignore the smell of brimstone from the cracks.

Theresa gestured around her, to the majestic mosaics and the delicate stained glass.

"Is it not obvious?" she inquired, amused. "This is the Chamber of Fate, once residing in the home of Heroes. This, dear Sparrow, is the Guild."

Sparrow's mouth dropped in amazement as she began to recognize the seal inlaid in the pedestal, and on the door of Bower Tomb. The long-destroyed Guild of Heroes had once been in charge of protecting and sheltering the people of Albion. The Guild had, however, become corrupt after the abuse of the Powers of Will went to the 'Heroes' heads.

In a historic moment, the townspeople of Bowerstone took up arms, and with the newly invented blunderbuss and rifle slaughtered the Heroes. The Mayor of the Bowerstone at the time expanded his guard cadre, extending coverage to the roads. He paid men to build bridges and better highways, and convinced the other town Mayors to do similar reforms in their lands. In the long run, traders began to move with more confidence, and the guards replaced the Heroes quickly and effectively.

In the time since, the ruined Guild Hall had decayed, and people quickly forgot about the Heroes, not noticing as the Hall sunk into the soft ground created by the old river from the Guild's forest. Soon, the river stopped up, and Bower Lake began to take shape, completely covering the old Guild. The only aspect of the Guild that was visible from the surface was the Tower of Maze, an old relic that miraculously stayed steady as the rest of the Guild was covered in dirt and rock.

None of this, however, was known to John, who by now was standing behind Sparrow, keeping a wary eye on the old crone to her side.

"What was that pedestal?" John questioned. Theresa glanced at the giant, regarding him as she would a child.

"The pedestal was an anchor to the Guild's store of Will Energy. In case of emergency, the Guild would open the seal, allowing a sufficiently powerful Will User to overpower a spell or shape any new form of Will with ease." Theresa explained. Sparrow, who had been fingering the seal curiously, now withdrew her hand hastily.

"Then what was that beam of light?" John queried. Theresa glared at him with sightless eyes, irritated with his many questions.

"You couldn't poss-"

"Tell us." Sparrow interrupted. John quirked an eyebrow as he looked at Sparrow, who was staring at Theresa with a somber look.

Theresa sighed. She hadn't had to answer this many questions since Sparrow had been a little kid asking about Strength and Skill and Will and all the marvelous ways of fighting.

"The pedestal must've sensed your latent Will power in your blood and reacted. It would have blasted through your blood, seeking out and activated these powers. Unfortunately, it seems that this simpleton pushed you out of the beam before it finished its work, doing this." Theresa shifted through the desk's drawers as she talked, eventually surfacing with an old chart. On it were displayed colorful images, showing men casting lightning from their fingertips, summoning whirling gales at will, and immolating creatures with a snap of the fingers.

"You are now capable of feats beyond any other mortal man. The bloodline of the Archons is slowly dying out, little Sparrow, but you are of that blood."


	2. Chapter 2

Neither giant nor girl spoke again until they were through the 'Cullis Gate.'

John was still skeptical about this whole 'Will' deal. How had primitives, who were still using flintlock muskets, devised a way of teleportation when the UNSC and the Covenant, with all their respective knowledge, hadn't even come close?

After the muted hum of the Cullis Gate rose, John could briefly smell ozone, before they had been through the Gate.

The Cullis Gate left them on top of what Sparrow called Bower Hill. This was overlooking the nearby Bower Lake, where the highway led to Bowerstone. In the more immediate sense, the gate had left them on top of an enormous hive of beetles, which wasted to time in swarming out to kill the intruders, nighttime or no.

John pulled out the iron flintlock rifle he had found, opening fire as soon as he spotted the beetles. Unfortunately for him, the rifle was very old, having been buried in a mining accident many years before. The powder, though it looked dry, had been completely soaked for twenty years, and refused to fire.

When John heard the rifle _click _with a misfire, the first thing he did was swear vividly. The second thing was to slip out of the shoulder strap, grip the barrel as tightly as he could, and begin clubbing beetles.

Sparrow had already drawn her sword and stabbed one beetle already, spraying vibrant, smelly blood all over her glowing hand. A beetle's thrumming wings sounded from her left, and she twisted, dodging the chaotic ball of energy. Focusing her anger, she _pushed_at the beetle, and a gleaming orb of force blasted into the beetle, splattering it. Sparrow smiled as she deemed her hastily taught will powers a success.

John and Sparrow waded into the press of beetles, John with long swings that smashed swathes of beetles, Sparrow with a deadly grace of speed and Will. She drove past him, blasting beetles with her left hand and slashing them with the sword in her right.

Systematically, John and Sparrow eradicated the beetle hive, crushing or slicing the beetle. It did not go perfectly, as a beetle latched onto John's forearm with its mandibles, chewing and tearing into his arm. John refused to cry out, quickly prizing the mandibles off with his other hand. He hurriedly ripped the beetle away, but while he had been occupied with the lone beetle, more had attacked, biting into his leg. John flew into a rage, ignoring his wounds as he crushed beetles beneath rocks, beneath his boots, and beneath his hands if he could get them there.

Suddenly, the swarming beetles stopped. Sparrow had hopped into the fray beside John, quickly and effectively blasting the beetles with her newfound Will powers.

John quickly pulled off his pants, tearing them up and bandaging his bleeding arm. The blood oozing from the many bite marks was perfectly normal looking, so poison was ruled out quickly.

"Help please." John requested. While he normally could tie bandages with one hand quite easily, it was noticeably harder when the bandages were formerly pants, and not prepared bandages. After another couple moments of silence, John looked over to Sparrow.

She had turned her back on John, covering her eyes.

"Help, please." John repeated. "I can't tie this bandage alone."

Slowly, Sparrow returned to his side, but refused to look at him. John guided her hands with his one, his spade-like hands quite delicate, she noted.

When the bandages were successfully tied, John's forearm was covered in dark bandages, the material disguising the blood. The moment Sparrow was done tying the last knot, she leapt up, moving away from John.

"Have I scared you?" John asked.

Sparrow shook her head rapidly, her platinum hair whirling around her like a nova. John didn't notice, as hair was like nails in his mind: irritating unless routinely cut.

"What is wrong?" he tried again, this time softening his tone. Was she scared of him losing his temper at the beetles? Perhaps she feared his rage?

"P-p-pants" Sparrow stuttered.

John looked down.

Oh.

* * *

Much later, John and Sparrow were once again on the move. Sparrow lead the way, describing landmarks and places and people she had met to John, who listened carefully as he watched the tree line. Sparrow had, according to her, anyway, obtained John's new clothes by bartering with a wandering gypsy trader with 'a mustache that curled wickedly on both ends.'

More likely, John decided, was that she found these clothes in another chest. They had already come past numerous such chests, some in open ground, and John was no less confused than when he found the first one. She had also managed to find him a shirt that fit. It was bright orange with red swirls on the shoulders. John was dead set on burning it, but a small corner of his mind thought that tearing it up for bandages would be much more efficient and satisfying.

And now, finally, they were on the road to Bowerstone. They had met a small group of traders who were travelling to the Bowerstone Market to trade their carvings and other luxury items. Sparrow hit it off immediately with the traders, chatting about the difference in prices at the general store at her Gypsy Camp and the market at Bowerstone. John had managed to find the one weapons merchant, and began asking questions about the current weapons of this world. Flintlock rifles were not the pinnacle of gunnery here, despite John's initial impression of such. Pistols were as widespread as rifles, and an odd form of semi-automatic action called _clockwork_ had emerged, rather than the terrestrial bolt-action rifles.

John read between the lines when he asked about the blades in the package. Normally, the presence of high accuracy weapons such as a flintlock rifle would immediately make a blade antiquated and unnecessary, but obviously the guns had advanced quickly, before experience could teach them how to properly aim. As such, most probably shot from the hip and allowed swordsmen to close the distance, thus balancing out the obvious advantages of firepower.

However, the blades themselves were curious. Most were medieval-style long swords, designed to penetrate plate armor, along with the odd naval cutlass and a couple one-handed axes. Such as style and mix implied a cultural chop suey, with different styles taking precedence in different areas.

John genuinely enjoyed talking to the short, swarthy man. He knew his trade very well, and was very interested in the suggestions of this tall albino. John gave him tips on how to improve the forging of rifles. As the quality was the only reason the Guards of Bowerstone bought from the trader, he was very receptive.

"Halt! Hold yer horses!"

The ragged convoy of traders and oxen ground to a stop haphazardly. A Bowerstone Guard stood in front of an improvised barricade where several additional Guards stood clutching flintlocks.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sparrow asked, moving to the front of the convoy.

"Ah, madam, there is a _terrible_ bandit on the loose, killing traders on this here road!"

'Did he have to talk like that?' John wondered.

"The Bandit Thag has raided traders on the road from 'ere to Bowerstone, and as we cannot guar'ntee your safety, the road is closed. A detachment of the Guard is being assembl'd, and once the Bandit Thag is dead, the road will be reopened."

Sparrow pushed through the whispering traders to where John stood with his arms folded. He was regarding the Guard with a casual look, scanning from his head to his toes.

…_A concealed pistol stashed at the front of the waistband underneath the coat, a slim blade reminiscent of a bastardized katana on his back, and a baton on the belt. The slim blade is too thin and long to be of much use to a police officer, the pistol most likely only contained one shot, and baton would be ineffective and seen more as a symbol of oppression… _

"Yes?"

"What do you make of this?" Sparrow asked, waving a hand at the ruckus as the Guards held back the traders.

John shrugged. It did not matter to him. There was no immediate urge to reach the center of government at this time. If this 'Thag' was such a large threat, then the law enforcers would surely hurry up and eliminate the menace.

"I have to get to Bowerstone and meet Theresa." Sparrow said. "She went to gather certain items and information that would help me on my quest against Lucien."

"Who is Lucien?" John asked. Sparrow looked at John in disbelief.

"Who is Lucien? Are you serious?" Sparrow demanded. Her head shook, and anger seized her features. John wondered if he had committed some serious affront. One of the gypsy traders led Sparrow away, consoling her as Sparrow shook with rage.

"What have I done?" John queried. His friend, the weaponsmith, stepped up to his side.

"From what I understand, she was brought into our encampment by Theresa ten years ago. What little I gathered was that her sister was killed by Lucien personally, and she swore revenge."

John quirked an eyebrow quizzically.

The smith scowled.

"Maybe where you are from, things are different, but here in Albion, oaths of any kind are Serious Business."

"She was eleven when she swore this oath?" John asked, surprised.

"Nine."

* * *

"So this all hinges on Thag?"

"Yes."

"What if we kill him?"

The Guard looked in incredulity at John for a moment, then reconsidered.

"Well then we would have no probl'm with that."

"We're gonna kill Thag?"

"Where did you come from?"

Sparrow appeared at John's elbow. There were no signs of her previous anger, but John noticed a slight twinge in her hands as she clutched her sword.

"Had a discussion with my friend Giselle. She brought me a gift from an old friend at the camp."

John raised his eyebrow again. Sparrow gave him an exasperated look.

"What? What is so curious about that?"

John pointed at Sparrow's hair.

"What?" she demanded again, growing agitated.

John shook his head, and walked over to the weaponsmith's cart. He idly picked up a cutlass and spun it, judging its balance and length. The thickset smith watched him with careful eyes. John met his gaze, and gestured to the blade.

"May I borrow this for a small matter?"

It was the smith's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"This is one of my best iron cutlasses." The smith murmured, taking the blade back. "If you take it, then you may not return with it."

"I swear on my honor that I will return your weapon."

The smith stopped. This giant may be from some other land, but he had explained that oaths were of the utmost importance. If this strange warrior gave his word, he was prepared to believe it. He nodded.

John belted on a sheath to his ratty pants and put away the cutlass.

* * *

"Do you even know how to use that properly?"

"I am versed in the use of the traditional cavalry saber."

"What's a saber?"

He hesitated. After all, a lengthy explanation was not needed, and his knowledge should be sufficient to cover a cutlass instead of the thinner saber. "A cutlass."

Before she could reply, John sprung into motion and dragged Sparrow down behind a fallen tree. As she went to protest, he clamped a hand over her mouth and put a single finger over his mouth. He peeked carefully above the crest of the log, then brought his face back down.

"Two targets, forty meters, armed with rifles." he reported, lifting his hand away from her mouth.

"Then let's take them!" Sparrow said loudly.

"Ssshh! Be quiet." John hushed her. Sparrow, dejected, stopped talking.

John grabbed a stick and sketched a quick diagram in the dirt.

"These two X's are the targets. We are the O's." John instructed. He added two arrows to the picture.

"I will distract them with a direct, zigzagging approach. You will flank from the western direction. Take a wide loop, come up behind them, and eliminate them." Sparrow looked at him blankly, not understanding. John sighed.

"That way. Move far that way, and then move up silently." he pointed out. Sparrow nodded grimly.

John rose to a crouch, took one last glance at the two idling bandits, and jumped out of cover.

"Oi!" yelled one of the bandits, taking notice quickly. "This is tha territree o' Thag tha Bandit!"

John didn't yell back, but reasoned a non-verbal taunt would be much more effective.

"OI! You're in fer for it now!" the other bandit cried, raising and firing his rifle quickly.

The shot impacted into a tree two meters away from John, shattering bark and spraying sawdust everywhere. John tucked and rolled away, as the second shot whistled a short distance above his head. John moved quickly, darting through the woodland with Spartan grace. He doubled back, throwing off their aim briefly.

The bandits were better shots that he had given them credit for, John had to admit.

John figured that he had a ten more seconds until the first bandit fired-

_BLAM_

_- _again.

A small, idle corner of John's mind considered that heavy modification to the rifles could conceivably increase the firing rate at the expense of the size of the ball, but-

_BLAM_

- clearly he had more immediate concerns.

_blam_

John paused. That shot sounded nowhere near his position. He leaned out from behind the large boulder and spied Sparrow clanging swords with one of the bandits. The other was on the ground, unmoving.

Sparrow ducked the bandit's overeager swing and tried to stab. The bandit's sword swung back very quickly, knocking hers aside. The bandit's blade came on a return swing, Sparrow's out of position to block. As the blade swung in, Sparrow dove backwards, drawing her sword back up into a guard position. The bandit charged forward, but Sparrow thrust her left hand forward, as if to ward off the bandit.

The bandit paused, before laughing. Sparrow grinned, and _pushed_.

The bandit flew backwards, his face caved in by the plain force of the push. He collapsed on the ground and spilled out red, blue, and green orbs.

John stepped beside Sparrow, taking the man's rifle and slinging behind his shoulder. Sparrow was already absorbing the orbs, while John watched cautiously. After a moment, she was done.

"This path has got to lead to Thag's hideout," she pointed, gesturing deeper into the forest. John nodded, but kneeled down and began picking through the bandit's belongings. He found twenty gold coins and a couple of older-looking knives. He pocketed the coinage, and, for lack of a better place, left the knives were they were. He pulled a worn leather bandolier off of the bandit's chest, looking at it in confusion.

Without a cartridge or any other method of standardizing ammunition, it had no point. So why was the bandit wearing one? Where had he even gotten it? John gazed at it, cocking his head in puzzlement.

Sighing in annoyance, Sparrow tugged John to his feet, taking the sling of leather from his hands. She slung it over his head, moving around him as she adjusted it and fixed it up, bewildering John in the process. She then unsheathed his sword from his precariously dangly sheath.

John leapt back, moving to draw his rifle.

"Oh leave that there you big dummy." grumbled Sparrow, as she darted forward and unfastened the sheath. Moving with speed, her nimble fingers attached the sheath to the baldric, re-sheathing his cutlass again.

John inspected this new item of clothing. The belt, which he had thought to be a bandolier, was in fact a baldric. His cutlass-sheath was now firmly attached to his baldric, rather than the loose, barely-holding-on belt that secured his trousers.

"Now can we kill Thag?" Sparrow requested. John nodded, and they moved down the path, John's new rifle held at the ready.

As they moved, John tugged on the baldric. Maybe this clueless girl wasn't as bad as he had assumed.

* * *

As they entered through the palisade gates, John inspected the makeshift camp. It looked recent, and also seemed as if it could be packed away in a hurry. As they moved further into the camp, Sparrow spotted a cage with two cowering people inside.

The man inside looked up, and spying them, cried out "Watch out! It's A Trap!"

Bandits, laughing, dropped from the trees around them. John raised, aimed, and fired in one smooth motion, taking a bandit in the face. Discarding the rifle, John drew his cutlass and charged at the closest bandit, who had already started to stab.

Behind John, Sparrow had already clashed blades with a bigger, more muscular bandit, who taunted her with foul words as they circled. Sparrow, sneering in disgust, leapt forward with a thrust that slipped under the bandit's guard and disemboweled him.

As John closed with the bandit, time seemed to slow as his adrenaline kicked in, and his mind subconsciously raced through his options. Going with intimidation, John slipped to the side of the stab, grabbing and yanking the wrist of the bandit with his left hand as his right parried a slash from the bandit on his right side.

His first opponent yelped as his bone gave way. John flipped the man away with a quick Aikido drop, before slicing the back of the second bandit's sword hand. Spinning on his left heel, a quick wheel kick broke the first bandit's nose and knocked him out.

Sparrow was already trading blows with wiry, thin bandit who knew his blade work. Sparrow tried many different angles, but the bandit just contemptuously knocked them aside with the ease of long experience. Sparrow struggled, but she just couldn't hit the bloody stupid bandit!

Her rage built up, until with a cry, she shoved her hand towards him, pushing out with her concentrated anger. Lightning erupted from her fingertips, skating down the bewildered bandit's blade until it barbecued him were he stood.

John was facing the bandit with the sliced open wrist, but with a shriek the bandit fled, dropping his sword as he turned and passed through the gates.

John faced his next opponent, but only saw Sparrow, who was furiously trying to rip the lock off of the wheeled cage. She wasn't making any progress.

"The key is in his cabin!" one of the prisoners informed her, pointing at the only permanent building in sight.

But as John tried to creep up to the window, Sparrow's dog went for the direct approach, charging up to the door and barking loudly. John tried to hush the dog, but it growled as it faced the door.

-_CRASH-_

Thag ripped through the door, booting it open. He called out with what he thought was a bloodcurdling cry, no doubt terrifying the fools who had killed three of his bandits. Thag glanced down for a moment, then kicked that stupid dog in the face.

"No one defies Thag the Impatient! I'll gut you myself!"

The little girl looked angry at the kicking of the dog, but oh well, he deserved it for getting in Thag's way!

"I'll give you three seconds to get-"

_BLAM_

Thag staggered, his face shocked.

"You shot me!" he growled, more outraged at the fact that someone had shot him during his speech than the fact he had been shot.

_BLAM_

Thag hit the deck of the cabin, blossoms of blood erupting from his chest. Sparrow spun quickly, staring dumbfounded at John, who had a dropped one rifle by his feet and held the other smoking one close, aiming down the sight with professional ability.

"You killed him!" crowed the male prisoner, clapping wildly. The female prisoner looked less exuberant, but just as happy. Sparrow just gawked, her jaw slack.

"Y-you shot him!" she spluttered, gesturing at Thag's body.

"Yes." John replied, confused.

"In the middle of his speech!" she continued.

"Yes." John answered again.

"But… but… but he was defenseless!" Sparrow protested.

"He was trying to kill us." John reasoned with her. "It was only natural that we killed him first."

"But he was _talking_!" Sparrow protested again.

John dropped his remaining rifle and stared at Sparrow. Stared until she finished talking.

"Done now?" he asked.

"I… guess?" Sparrow answered, frowning.

John strode past her, into the cabin. Sparrow sunk to her knees, and looked blankly at the corpse that had been Thag. It wasn't _right_, she thought. True, Thag had been a heartless bastard who had deserved it, but nobody deserved to be shot in the middle of their speech!

John quickly found the key for the cage in another chest, and was regarding it oddly. Why doesn't he just _carry_ it, he wondered. It's not like this key was really big or ornate, it was just a dull copper key.

Another bandit dropped from the trees right in front of him as John left the cabin.

"You don't want to be doing that, mate," the bandit said, holding his hand out for the key. John placed his right hand on his sheathed sword, and tucked the key into his pants pocket.

"Why not?" he asked, keeping his voice light. Sparrow came closer, crossing her arms.

"Those slaves belong to me, I bought them fair and square from Thag." the bandit proudly stated. Sparrow began to frown, and John's hand tightened on the hilt of his cutlass.

"If you let me leave with 'em," the bandit continued, "I'll give you one hundred gold pieces."

Sparrow considered the offer. She didn't have practically any money, and one hundred gold pieces could easily buy her several meals.

"Think about it," the bandit pressed. "All you have to do is walk away."

John drew his cutlass and drove towards the bandit, blade at the ready. The bandit jumped back, but couldn't manage to draw his own sword before John was on him, cutting and slicing. It was over quick, the unarmed bandit unable to keep the Spartan at bay.

John pulled his sword out from the bandit's chest and wiped it away. He grimaced. After fighting for thirty years to protect people, here he was killing them. How things changed.

"We could have used that money." Sparrow reprimanded John. In response, John bent down and took the bandit's moneybag, which held more than the promised one hundred coins, tossing it to Sparrow.

He walked back to the cage and unlocked it, to the profuse gratitude of its inhabitants. The man started to wax poetic, but John had already turned and left, moving from body to body and inspecting their weapons, before gathering them into a bundle. Sparrow busied herself raiding Thag's cabin, trying to take her mind of her strange companion.

* * *

"Now that someone's gone an' disposed of the Bandit Thag, the road to Bowerstone is hereby reopened." the Guard declared, moving away the barricades. The traders, having now swelled to a larger number, gratefully pushed through the gap and onto the highway proper.

"As I promised, your cutlass." John said, returning the sheathed cutlass to the thickset blacksmith. The smith unsheathed the blade and inspected it, _hmm_-ing as he did.

"You cleaned it?" the smith asked, surprised.

"Of course."

"_Hmm_… most wouldn't." the smith replied. He replaced the cutlass onto its spot on his ordered cart, before proffering his hand to John. John didn't reciprocate, merely looking in askance for the gesture.

"As I said before, not many would return the blade clean. They wouldn't even think of cleaning a blade after gutting somebody."

John smiled, understanding. He took the man's hand in a firm, steady grip. Always give a good 'shake, Mendez used to say. A man's handshake tells a lot about him, he'd inform the Spartans.

The blacksmith's eyes narrowed as he shook John's hand.

"A pleasure doing business with you." the blacksmith said, almost automatically, before moving along.

"Hey, hey you!"

John turned to face the Guard from before, who held a sack in his hands. Judging by the lack of slack, it was pretty heavily loaded down.

"Thag had a bit of a bounty on 'is head, citizen. By killing 'im, you've earned this 'ere gold." the Guard explained. John accepted the sack, but tugged the Guard's sleeve as he went to move back to his post.

"Why did the Guard detachment take so long to come?" John inquired.

"What, you think the Guard is gonna hustle up for some low-life bandit?" the Guard laughed. "Citizen, b'tween you 'n me, there are dozens of Bandits every single day who spring up, claim some road, and demand tribute. The Guard spends enough time dealing with the bigger ones that they can't spare too many guards to protect the highway to Bower Lake. Rookwood and Oakfield are much more important to the 'igher-ups, if you know what I mean?"

John nodded. The 'higher-ups,' whomever they were, clearly had a set of priorities established, and the road to a camp of Gypsies didn't seem to John like something that would be high on the list.

John left the Guard merrily whistling as he headed up the road, catching Sparrow's eye and showing her the bag of gold. She grinned, delighted by the money, and promptly snatched from John, secreting it away to her purse.

* * *

"Welcome to Bowerstone, John." Sparrow gestured, sweeping her arms in what she thought was a suitably majestic pose. Unfortunately, it attracted a certain wandering eye.

"Where is the nearest government official I can speak with?" John requested, as a brightly dressed fellow pushed through the crowd of traders towards them.

"Dunno." Sparrow said. "I've never been here before."

John turned to her and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a man burst through the crowd and cried, "Oh, is it really you?"

Sparrow and John turned to the newcomer, surprised at the intrusion.

"Are you really the one that killed the Bandit Thag?" the man babbled, looking up to John.

Sparrow and John looked at each other, and then John shrugged.

"Yes."

"Oh wonderful!" the man squeaked. "I'm a bard, and I'd like to compose a ballad about you!"

Sparrow, watching this scene, struggled to contain her giggles.

"Uh, I'd like to help you with your newfound friend John, but I have to…go meet Theresa!" Sparrow chimed in, dashing off before John could ask her to help him out.

"John, is it?" the bard asked. "Well, I suppose it fits, I mean, a simple name like John. Nothing too fancy, nothing convoluted. Just simple and to the point: _John. He kills Bandits_." He announced, gesturing grandiosely, as if stabbing the sky from atop a mountain of corpses. John, almost indulgently, added a barely clothed buxom woman to the mental image, desperately clutching at the man's leg. The Spartan shook his head, but he could not deny that the addition fit the image.

Seeing no way to remove his limpet, John decided to keep walking and hope the chattering bard would take a hint soon.

Walking over the bridge, John inspected the architecture of the surrounding buildings with a glance. Multiple chimneys, a working blacksmith and forge, and what looked suspiciously like a bookstore. More developed than he thought before, but maybe the Gypsy's simply hadn't adapted to the new developments in housing?

The bard was waxing poetic, and while he wasn't very good, John had to give him points for trying. The Bridge was very imposing, while not as majestic or as impressive as the UNSC bridges, it had a certain appeal to it. No higher architecture and laser designators for perfectly straight lines, just a Man with paper and charcoal stick, and several dozen workers.

The Bard kept talking, John noted. He tried to keep track of what he was actually saying, in case he asked a question, but for now it looked as if John was in the clear.

Sparrow abandoned him to go talk to her master, who had somehow gotten to Bowerstone ahead of them. Perhaps a portable version of the Cullis Gate technology? John put a note in the back of his head to remember to look that up later.

"Are there any jobs open around here?" John asked Roland, cutting him off before he could lapse into verse again.

"You might want to check the blacksmith, he's been needing a helper for a while now." Roland replied thoughtfully, gesturing to the sign hanging over the open smithy.

"Thank you." John replied, before giving the Bard a gold coin without a thought. He made his way to the smithy while Roland, confused, decided if that was a tip or an order to play.

_CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-SCHRRRRK-_

"Damn it."

The Blacksmith looked up from his anvil at the sound of John knocking on a wooden table.

"Yes?" the Blacksmith tersely asked, his sweaty brow glistening. Compared to the chilly market, the forge was a volcanic hot spring, and the Blacksmith had stripped down to his sleeveless undershirt to cope with the heat.

"I hear you need an assistant." John replied, meeting the Blacksmith's gaze and holding it.

The Blacksmith slowly nodded, looking John up and down.

"Aye," he answered. "You'll do nicely."

* * *

Sparrow returned from her meeting with Theresa shuffling a worn gypsy Fate Cards deck. Crossing the main square of the Bowerstone market, she spied John at work by the blacksmith. As she moved closer, she began to make out more details and inwardly she sighed. It seemed she needed to buy John a shirt, seeing as he had torn up what was left of his shirt to make crude hand-wraps.

The Blacksmith seemed happy, though. He wielded a pair of tongs and a smaller hammer, holding the hot metal in place and tapping the metal with his hammer, showing John where to hit and the angle. John obligingly swung the larger sledgehammer overhead, and the metal resounded with a loud ringing sound.

Sparrow watched him for a while, but eventually started becoming a little frustrated, as more people came to watch the muscular Spartan hammer away without a shirt. Sparrow, cursing the crowd of gawking women, left before she blasted the group with Will.

* * *

John finished his last blow on the hot iron, before the Blacksmith, content, pulled away the iron to cool it.

"Last blade of the day, lad." the Blacksmith said. "The other parts of the process I do on me own, seeing as they don't require an apprentice."

John nodded, absently whipping away some of his sweat with a swaddled hand. He began to unwrap the cloth about his hands, absently stuffing them in his pockets. Easy to sterilize and use as bandages, John thought automatically.

The Blacksmith disappeared temporarily into his back office, emerging a minute later with a sack of gold. He placed the sack on a battered table and counted out four hundred gold pieces, before sweeping them into another moneybag and handing them to John.

"Sadly," the Blacksmith mused, as he handed the bag over, "I only had need of an assistant because I was overloaded with unfinished blades at this stage of the forging. Now that I've got these all done, I won't be needing a helper for a good while."

John shrugged, but took the unspoken compliment.

"If you ever need some work, though, you look me up, understand?" the Blacksmith told John. "I could always use a strong apprentice to pass the trade on to."

John shook hands with the Blacksmith, then left the smoky forge, already looking around for Sparrow.

He also needed a shirt, John grudgingly realized, as the cold bit at his unprotected skin. The forge may have been warm enough to warrant removal of his shirt, but the early spring was still chilly enough to demand one. As John searched for Sparrow, he thought about how much simpler things would be if he still had his climate-controlled MJOLNIR Mark Six Armor. Almost reluctantly, John wondered how long it had been since he had been fully out-of-armor. At least since the Fall of Reach, he thought. He'd had limited R&R time on Earth prior to it being attacked by the Covenant, but he'd swapped straight from Mark V to Mark VI as soon as he could, and the 'morale raising' press conferences had kept him in the armor to play up the image of the invincible Spartan.

Ah! There was a tailor over there, under the large sewing needle and pants sign.

* * *

XXXX

* * *

Now to lighten the mood, read all Guard and Bandit lines aloud in your most hamtastic voice!


	3. Chapter 3

"By the Light, they do grow 'em big where come from, don't they?"

John looked down at the tailor, who looked more than a little curious at John's presence in his store.

"I need some new clothes." John explained, tapping at his bare chest.

"Well you're in the wrong place, son. This is the women's tailor shop." the tailor shook his head.

"Unless you happen to want a nice skirt, the real place to go is Pants! Just take a left as you leave, then another left after the blacksmith, and you can't miss it."

Why have a male tailor run a female shop? John wondered, as he passed back by the smithy.

* * *

Now in the proper store, a female tailor confronted John. Pausing for a split moment to carefully consider his sheer size, the woman withdrew a measuring tape and began measuring his torso, chatting about possible styles so quickly that John couldn't make sense of what she said.

"I want something plain, functional, and nonrestrictive." John specified, moving towards a dummy advertising a shirt and vest combo.

"You like the combo? Maybe that?" the tailor asked, moving towards a shelf of cloth.

"Less, like a short-sleeved shirt, but with the same fabric." John described, rubbing the fabric of the dummy's shirt.

"Oh, that's a little expensive. Special, smooth yet stretchy." the tailor exclaimed, waving her hands around, before showing John.

Some kind of naturally occurring fiber that was the equivalent of synthetic materials, John considered. Such as thing was uncommon, but not unheard of. Steel thistle, from the colony of Safehold, grew like bamboo and yielded seventy percent more raw fiber per acre than Earth cotton. Despite how lightweight it is, it is just as strong as most of the UNSC's synthetic uniforms. This material looked similar, and with a vest, might just be the closest thing to body armor he could find on this backwater planet.

The tailor got to work rapidly, and despite her claims, was easily able to make a short-sleeved shirt, though when John described how the neckline should be, she protested.

"No no no! It won't work, you'll choke to death!"

"The fabric will stretch, allowing me to get the shirt on, and then conform back. It works."

"No, it just won't! We've never made shirts like that and we never will!"

Close to half an hour of arguing and one of tailoring later, and John now had a dark shirt that looked vaguely close to the regulation UNSC casual wear shirt, and a nice set of what the tailor called 'Explorer's Pants.' All John cared about was that the pants had a set of double-belts that he could easily rig as a holster once he acquired a sidearm. The aforementioned black shirt covered his chest, in addition to a dark-green and brown over-tunic, though the tailor kept insisting it was a vest. His leather baldric went over that, and John felt reasonably prepared, given the lack of available body armor on this world. Maybe one of the guards had something better?

And to add to that though, now John needed a weapon. He could probably a good price from his blacksmith friend, what with working there, but what to get? Unlike before, John didn't know what he would be facing, or how to counter it.

Take stock, his mind said. Weapon, ammunition, supplies? came the drilled response. Weapon was a negative. He'd sold the shoddy weapons the bandits had to the blacksmith, who had scorned the workmanship and said that the only thing the weapons were good for was raw materials. Still, he could acquire a weapon from the blacksmith or take one from a bandit. Not a problem.

Ammunition? Hopefully the blacksmith sold it as well, though John hadn't seen any powder or anything like that for sale, and if he killed any bandits, he could always take theirs.

Supplies? Anything resembling modern first aid seemed entirely absent from this place. Still, given cloth and a flint, he could sterilize bandages, and given enough time, he could learn to make use of certain plants on this planet.

Now where did that local go?

* * *

"No, I don't want to buy one bloody potion, I want to buy ten!"

Ah, thought John as he walked through the square. There she is.

Sparrow was in a small store next to the bookstore, the large sign declaring it to be an Apothecary. As John entered the cluttered building, he could hear the resident chemist grumpily arguing with Sparrow.

"No, no, no! I sell one potion per type per customer!" the chemist responded. Walking into the tense room, John was treated to a bit of nostalgia. The chemist turned to face his newest client, a smiling giant, looking pale as a vampyr and strong as a bull. Why the giant was smiling, the chemist did not know, but neither did he particularly care.

"What can I do for you?" the chemist greeted. The giant shook his head, almost as if reluctant, the chemist noted.

"I'm good, thank you." John replied, moving out of the doorway and to the side. Sparrow banged on the chemist's counter, drawing his irate attention once more. The chemist turned back with a sour look, while Sparrow restarted her fiery protest against the Chemist's retail practices.

The Chemist would periodically inject with comments on the nature of 'My business, my choice,' while John browsed the shelves and eyed the various brews and bottles on display, each colored a differing shade. Curious, John lifted one small bottle, but discovered it to be empty. The placard in front of it declared "Health Potion," but no price.

"I've had it!" Sparrow announced dramatically, throwing her hands in the air. "If you can stand this fool, then you can have him!"

She stormed out of the Apothecary's store, her loose coat billowing behind her.

"And you can stay out!" called back the Chemist, leaning over the counter.

"Sorry you had to witness that," the Chemist murmured, turning to John. "But the way I run my business is my choice, most certainly not that of a barely-adult girl from Samarkand!"

"Actually," John mentioned, "She's from Bower Lake."

"The Gypsy Camp?"

"Yes."

"Huh. She looks Samarkandish. Anyhow, this is my humble store, and you are welcome to it!"

John smiled, idly forgetting that his helmet no longer covered his expressions.

"And what would your name be, then?" John inquired.

"Victor." the Chemist cheerfully supplied, sitting down on a stool behind the register. With one hand he drummed the countertop, while with the other he stirred a medium-sized cauldron with a careful stroke of what look like a glass serving spoon.

John's eyebrows rose in a gesture of surprise.

"Odd, I have a friend with the same name," John said, his smile turning remorseful. "Looked just like you, too."

The Chemist chuckled.

"Hopefully not," he countered. "I'd hate for anyone else to be stuck with this ugly mug."

John joined the Chemist in chuckling, surprised again. Happy emotions weren't the most common thing during the War, and it felt good to be genuinely amused again.

"So what can I do for you?"

"I'd like to learn a bit more about these potions," John asked. "I'm not quite from around this area…"

"Of course!" the Chemist answered, shifting his grip on the stirring spoon to his off hand and grabbing a red vial from beneath the counter. Unlike the one on the shelf, this one was full of some sloshy red liquid.

"Sniff, but do not inhale." the Chemist instructed, holding the vial carefully.

"This is a basic health potion, and it is capable of…."

* * *

Sparrow brushed past a grinning couple, feeling a smile coming on.

It was wonderful! Her old neighborhood, revitalized! The premier part of town! Her old friend Derek, now the head Sheriff of Bowerstone, and personal Sheriff to the precinct of Old Bowerstone, and even better, a 50% discount on everything in Old Bowerstone!

Needless to say, Sparrow quickly found a cheap Apothecary who was all too willing to sell numerous health and Will potions to a friend of the Sheriff. She chatted with old friends, all remembering the crazy girl and her sister. Where_ was _her sister, anyhow?

Sparrow learned to dodge these people quickly. She could not afford to be an angsty bitch right now. Defeating Lucien is much more important than her personal issues, she told herself.

Mindful that she would likely not be getting deals such as these anywhere else on her travels, she took more time to shop than she normally would. A nice set of explorer's clothing, a couple dyes to alter the color if she wanted, and a much better weapon, a nice iron flintlock rifle instead of her cracked crossbow, and she was ready to go to chase down this next Hero, the so-called Hero of Strength.

'_What about John?' _she thought again. She'd asked Theresa if John was the Hero of Strength, but Theresa had immediately shut down that thought, telling her strictly that the Hero of Strength was of the monastic order located in Oakfield, not a vagrant who invaded the sanctuary of the hallowed Guild, ruined though it may be.

A slightly more logical mind may have pointed out that Gyspy's are vagrants, and that technically speaking, they had invaded the Guild just as much as John had, but never mind that.

* * *

"Well of course I only sell one bottle per visit!"

"Why?"

"You've noticed that I haven't stopped stirring this cauldron? Yes? Well, a proper Health Potion takes approximately eight hours to fully prepare, and four of those hours are nonstop stirring. Oh, sure, I could take one potion and dilute it into many others, but the potion doesn't take well to mixing with water, so splitting one proper potion into two makes them only a quarter as effective, each. Too much wasted time. The only people who really bother to buy my potions are the desperate and the Guards, and while I could scam them, I don't."

At John's curious look, he elaborated.

"You see, when someone is desperate enough to shill out enough of their savings to buy one of my potions, then they bloody expect them to _work_. If the potion fizzes, I don't exactly have repeat customers, do I? As well, it builds up my reputation as a good, reliable alchemist. Yes, the bastard in Old Town dilutes _his_, but when they fail, his customers come to _me._ And then when their friends need a potion, they tell them 'Oh no, don't go to the pasty-little-bastard-breath who probably doesn't bathe, go to Victor's, much more reliable!' "

* * *

After a long and interestingly complex conversation on the nature of potions and the like, John left the Chemist's shop happy. Though he not understood all of the complex recipes that Victor had spouted, the basic formulas were similar to the chemistry classes that Deja had given the Spartan candidates once upon a time.

Well, that answers the question of Supplies. John didn't know if they were meant as placebos, but somehow a little red drink didn't strike him as something as effective as biofoam. On the other hand, the Chemist had seemed just as smart as some of the corpsmen John had worked with during the War, and those men _had_ to know their supplies inside and out. On the whole, John was willing to try these potions, but he wasn't going to risk his death on the drink working.

It had been good to talk with Victor, John realized. Though the man himself was born anew in this strange world, it seemed that Victor's personality and drive had carried over. John had thought that it was altogether a very suspicious coincidence, when his old comrade had returned from the dead, though without the Spartan augmentations, Victor was a much shorter man. But despite his logical mind _insisting _that _this _was _not_Victor, every now and then during the conversation John would see a glimmer of something in the Chemist's eyes, as if the Chemist himself suspected something odd about John.

Drawing his mind away from the interesting conundrum that the Chemist presented, John set his mind to figuring out this next task. He had to contact whatever government was present on this strange backwater planet, but he didn't see any signs pointing to a town hall, or an administrative building. However, the Guards seemed to be the local variant of the police/militia, so John approached a nearby Guard. The guard seemed to be scanning the market crowd, trying to pick out potential troublemakers before they started something. A good man, John thought.

"Hello." John acknowledged, nodding to the guard, who half-turned respectfully, a hand resting on the pistol in the front of his waistband. While John noted the action and analyzed how to counter it automatically, he didn't bear the guard any malice over it. The man was just doing his job, being cautious came with the territory. If anything, John as glad to see someone competent in their job.

"G'day." replied the guard easily, his eyes giving John a quick once-over. John doubted that the man could understand how many martial arts he knew with a glance, but it _did_tell the guard that John was tall, very strong, and very quick. All the guard needed to know to give John his undivided attention.

"I'm trying to find the closest government official. Preferably the mayor or governor, though a sheriff would do fine." John said, as the Guard hmm-ed and nodded.

"Sheriff Benjamin's in charge of the district, I suppose you could talk to him if you want." the guard offered, his easy accent slightly different from the other, more British accents. John was reminded of a member of Sergeant Johnson's core squad, an Australian by the name of Dubbo.

The guard helpfully pointed up the road, past the male-tailor in female-shop, to a small guard outpost by a set of ornate gates, mentioning that the sheriff would either be there or on his rounds. John thanked the man, and headed off.

…But something just bugged him about this place.

While this was a different world that apparently had little knowledge of their origins, they had somehow maintained an accent over their generations. But why the accent in the first place? All of the colonies had a calculated mix of ethnicities, to prevent any possible racial prejudices or language separations between multiple colonies. Of course the populations tended to drift after their founding, like the Eastern European population that had settled Reach, but the first generation was simply not allowed to be all of one ethnicity or origin.

This colony was really starting to bother him, John thought. Technological regression, but cultural maintenance, even if technical terms had vanished, was near impossible. Education would be a telling point, he recognized. Sparrow could read and write, but what was the literacy rate in a city like this? Even with strong educational programs, there will always be street orphans who cannot afford to go to school, and thus cannot pass on that importance to their fellows. This colony was impossible, really. At the very least, the ships that had brought them here would still be around; their titanium hulls lasted for near millenniums, and the locals would not have been able to salvage them without powered tools or any other tech.

And if they _had_, then where was the auto-buoy dropped in orbit, as was standard practice? Even a frontier colony barely a week old had satellites, communicating landing sites and resource locations to further incoming colony ships. Cortana would have been able to detect the satellite's emissions, even if it had gone cold from lack of fuel or command.

This whole situation just didn't fit, John thought. The only possible scenarios were Insurrections riding out the war secretly, or some form of neo-Luddites who hid themselves away.

The first scenario was out because the Innies _never_ threw away tech. Their organization may be flawed morally or structurally, but they were scavengers at heart, and smart ones at that. As well, the Innies would have given all their members basic info sessions on the 'tyranny of the UNSC' and their soldiers. Sparrow would have recognized his MJOLNIR Mark Six instantly, and would have warned the-

Save that thought, John ordered himself. They might be massing to kill him. Looks like the blacksmith is the first stop. After buying an iron flintlock pistol, John felt more secure, so he bought another and put them in crude shoulder holsters. The people didn't look hostile, but they could be better actors than he gave them credit for, and who was to say that they were not assembling a fireteam to exterminate him?

The second scenario, John continued, is right out because the neo-Luddites would have instilled strict boundaries on technology, and never would have allowed future generations to build back any tech. In addition, there would be churches, and John hadn't seen a single person mention the Christian God or any other major religious beliefs. The last reason it couldn't be neo-Luddites was simple: the neo-Luddites had a colony already. Granted, it was ransacked during the war, but with enough generations for the people to forget what the UNSC was, this colony was clearly over a hundred years old, in the same timeframe that the original neo-Luddites colony was founded.

Oddly enough, the thought that the colonists/Insurrectionists might be trying to kill him reassured him. If they weren't going to kill him, he was fine. If they were going to kill him, he could categorize the threat and deal with it.

He could plan for almost any threat coming from the Insurrectionists, if that was what they were. Gunships, armored support, and all the infantry in the universe didn't scare him. Anything unknown was worse. Before the Flood, John thought that nothing unknown could scare him. Heavier artillery, faster ships, all advantages that the Covenant already had, and as Mendez would say, a man fights much harder when his back is against the wall. The only advantage the UNSC really had was the Spartans, and any attempt to take that away was dealt with simply.

John shook his head, wryly musing that it had been a while since he had this much free time. It looked like giving a Spartan time to gather wool resulted in a very distracted Spartan.

Looking around, John quickly discovered that he was nowhere near the guard post. In fact, he had left the city itself, and was now in some kind of park. The swathes of beautiful flowers were obviously well cared for. The finely dressed aristocrats who stalked the gardens sniffed in disgust at John, but he didn't notice.

John's attention was held firmly by the large castle that towered over the grounds. Dark, inspiring, and horribly open to attack, this was a castle made to intimidate, to cow the enemy into submission with the looming threat of the man waiting within. It seemed, to John, like a marvelous waste of material and manpower. A large eyesore, if anything, he considered. Not to say that John was unappreciative of beauty, but a castle's architect was supposed to have two things in mind when planning it: practicality, and whatever is leftover. Beauty, awe-inspiring or not, is not the point of a castle. Being a well-made fortress that could survive sieges and wars is the point of a castle. ONI's CASTLE base was an underground complex related to traditional castles only in name, but it understood the first rule of castles better than almost any stereotypical castle.

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

John turned, eyeing the short chunk of flesh like a dog viewing a lump of foreign feces on his territory.

"I wouldn't know." John lied.

"Harold Albrecht," the man said, gesturing to himself. "Mayor of this fine city."

Authority.

"I am John, Master Chief Petty Officer, United Nations Space Command Navy. I have been marooned here due to the loss of my ship, and I required immediate transportation back to UNSC-space."

The sack of human looked carefully at John. He would dismiss the giant as insane, but John's eyes were steady and even, no telltale twitch of madness. The vampyr giant seemed confident, very assured of the importance of his words. Perhaps this 'UNSC' even existed. It didn't matter.

"I don't care."

John's eyes narrowed, as the fat man shrugged.

"There is no reason for me to assist you. You have no wealth, few weapons, and no locations of import to me. To be fully honest, I could order my guards to throw you in jail, and no one would notice."

He turned to face John, a leer on his face.

"But you have something to offer, yes? You are a warrior who can help my guard crack fortresses, demolish the pathetic vermin that infest my roads, and secure my reign. With your support, I could declare myself _King_, and rule over all of Albion with an iron fist or a velvet glove. None would dare oppose me."

John decided that he didn't like Albrecht. He could work with him, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"So how about we get down to business, yes?"

"Aye." John answered stoically.

"You'll need to talk to my Sheriff, Derek. He should be running around Old Bowerstone, he seems to love the rabble down there. He'll have some tasks for you to do, maybe even proper Guard work. But you shall understand, you are _not_ a Guard. You will not be wearing the uniform, and I will not be responsible for your failures. That will fall on your head alone, clear?"

"Affirmative." John ground out. Albrecht didn't understand John's annoyance, or if he did, he did not care about it. Albrecht turned away, seemingly dismissing John, who strode off, intent on getting as far away from this pompous fool as he could.

* * *

"Sheriff Derek?" John hazarded, approaching the rickety old guard shed, it's peeling paint and ramshackle construction contrasting deeply with the unstained white of the Sheriff's longcoat.

"Yes, how can I help you, citizen?" the Sheriff answered, regarding John warmly, but keeping one eye on the street behind them. John paused to think about how he was going to phrase this. Better to stick to what he knew, he reasoned, rather than experiment.

"Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan-117," John introduced, saluting the Sheriff respectfully. "I've been detached from my current duty and am temporarily joining the Bowerstone Guards under the direction of Mayor Albrecht. I'm to report to you for my duty assignment."

The Sheriff, despite clearly not knowing a proper UNSC salute, returned a passable one, his hand turned more upwards, like some of the British troopers John had served alongside. They'd maintained that tradition through centuries of unified planetary government, causing no lack of annoyance in the drill sergeants of the UNSC, and had refused point-blank to call a man 'Lieutenant', only 'Leftenant.'

"Assigned?" Derek asked, clearly a tad puzzled. "Why? Are you from another city's guard corps? I've never 'eard of the You-En-Ess-See before, so why are _you_ working with _us_?"

A little doubt is healthy, John recognized. It's better that we get this out of the way right now, he thought, than quarrel over this later. Nonetheless, it posed a bit of a question to John.

It was clear that the technological level of this civilization was no later than early industrial revolution, and at this point, John was coming close to admitting that this was no long lost colony or Insurrectionist bolt-hole. Every single person would have had to be an actor of the highest quality to fake his or her body language and drop all accents. Besides, in a cosmopolitan society, there would be more ethnical diversity. Asians, Hispanics, Slavs, and Africans, not just the Western European, mostly English features John had seen. Names could be changed, accents faked, and some surgery could alter features, true, but enough for a whole colony? Even if they had ten doctors working in-house on it, it would cost enough to establish two or three colonies.

So if these _were_ just long-lost cousins to Humanity who weren't from the UNSC, then why _was_ he working with them?

They have no FTL-capabilities, no industrial infrastructure, and almost no standardization or interchangeable parts. They have nothing to offer John, no way to help him. His best bet was to load up as many supplies as he could carry, and search for the _Forward Unto Dawn,_ salvage her, and get an SOS beacon out.

Of course, with the limitations of the radio signals, unless the primary communication hub was intact (something John doubted, as cutting a ship in half tended to impede it's abilities), then _c_ was the best speed of a radio signal.

So… why?

"I don't know sir."

The Sheriff gave off an odd noise, like a musing _hmm_ crossed with a bulldog's growl.

"What do _you_ have 'xperience with then?" the Sheriff questioned.

"Fighting." John answered reflexively.

"Bar brawls, or proper fighting?" the Sheriff elaborated, his eyes narrowing a little.

"Fought as a soldier in the UNSC for over thirty years, numerous combat situations. No military police work, all frontline assignments." John informed him, rattling off the details just like he would with a superior officer. The Sheriff's face expressed a little perplexity, but he smoothly hid that, raising a hand to rub his fledgling beard.

"Walk with me." the Sheriff said, as he turned down the street. John, slightly curious but dutiful as always, matched his step as they patrolled.

"Bowerstone's always had a bandit problem, but it rarely spills into the city. Guards take care of the lot before the common citizen notices. For the most part, the work of a guard is spent mostly watching, protecting, not actually fighting." the Sheriff explained, as they slipped through a crowded intersection, where a merchant yanking on his horse's reins to get his cart out of the narrow lane.

"Did you notice how the common man looked there?" the Sheriff queried John, still gazing straight ahead with the same tone.

John, guessing his intent immediately, responded with a systematic analysis of how the people looked angry, but not likely to riot, or commit a crime. Furthermore, he recommended an approach of gently relieving the tension by asking that some of the people help the merchant with his horse.

"Good thought, but yer wrong." The Sheriff mildly chided, his accent slipping back. "Don't tell the people to do that, they'll think that yer abusing yer power. Instead, help the man yer'self. Make's 'im feel grateful and happy, proud of 'is town, where the common guard will help him out without a fuss."

John frowned. While the Sheriff was correct, it rankled at John to have needed correcting. True, he had no experience with police work, and was likely never to be placed in a military police role due to the time and money placed in his training, but the abhorrence of incompetence was drilled into him from the start of said training.

"Yer not a guard. You're a soldier. A soldier…" the Sheriff muttered, testing the archaic word. As far as he knew, the last professional soldiers were those of the Old Kingdom, the warrior-mages of the Archons. Few still remembered the old stories, but the Sheriff had some old books and scrolls, preserved from the Fall of the Guild, and knew the Old Kingdom to be as real as the pistol at his hip.

They continued on for a little bit, both silent as the Sheriff thought. Finally, the Sheriff stopped, a slight smirk on his face.

"How good are you at training people?"

* * *

As John walked off to find Sparrow, an hour later, he considered the Sheriff's plan.

It was ambitious, that was for sure.

The Bowerstone Guard had traditionally been a police force. They dealt with bandits, true, but they were most effective at enforcing laws, preventing civil unrest, the usual police work. And seeing as most of the work they did was just that, it worked out fairly well. The guard could take out small-time bandits with ease, but had bigger problems with more fortified, militarized groups, such as the one that had destroyed the Rookwood Bridge to Oakfield, and had made a palisade fortress up the Inn there.

Simply put, the Sheriff didn't need guards; he needed soldiers, soldiers that had apparently not been used for the past several hundred years. Bandits and crime were rising, as the guard could not handle the increasing difficulties.

Moreover, this talk of 'Lord' Lucien concerned John. When he'd asked the Sheriff about Lucien, the Sheriff had done his best to explain, and John had supplemented that with information gleaned from his newfound friend, The Chemist.

The former Mayor of Bowerstone, Lucien had declared himself 'Lord' of Bowerstone after a successful campaign against the Black Blade bandit gang. The grateful citizens had adored him and his wife Helena, rejoicing at the birth of his daughter, Amelia. Unfortunately, Helena and Amelia had succumbed to disease eleven years before, and Lucien had spiraled into despair. After a year of depression, he fled Bowerstone to some unknown place, thought by many to be a mountain fortress.

The problem with this Lord Lucien was that he had recently reappeared, endorsing some bandit groups and generally being a nuisance. Lucien's personal apparently forces consisted of former bandits, all large muscle-bound men in strange, dark uniforms. Lucien's agenda was unknown, but his men were known to abduct travellers or raid villages for people.

Where he had been for ten years was still unknown, despite the many rumors flying around, as was the reason for his newfound slaving practices.

Simply put, it was getting much more dangerous to be living in Albion, and the Sheriff wanted John to fix that. The Sheriff didn't seem to want that much assurance of John's skill, just for him to come by the barracks later for some target practice.

* * *

Eventually, he found Sparrow on a nearby cliff, leaning against the low-lying stonewall overlooking the bustling city. The Sun was starting to set, the city's hurried lifestyle slowing as everyone wound down.

Unlike her usual manner, Sparrow was silent and still as John approached, looking expressionlessly at a large card she turned over and over in her hands. John, content to let her mind wander, simply stood upright next to her, and decided to devote this time to the defense of Bowerstone.

The city was at least protected by a large set of stone walls, but the somewhat advanced gunpowder should also easily be able to make primitive artillery and cannons, bombs at the very least, and that was a major security risk. As well, the forest was, in many sections, allowed to grow right up to the walls! John, of course, would have no problem scaling the walls anyway, (that was one of the first things he had considered when he saw the walls), but the tree line was so close someone could just jump onto the wall from a branch!

That would be the first thing to change, John decided. As well, the solitary guard towers that stood every couple hundred meters were not enough to desist any attempts to climb the walls in the first place. Under cover of darkness, a person could easily scale the walls via the trees or by climbing hook. The guards would have to patrol down the walls, which would also help stop them for getting lazy, as if they kept rotating around, they would constantly face new surroundings, and as such, theoretically always be alert while on duty.

The walls also posed a security risk in that there were no sets of barracks along them, and the main guard barracks was much deeper in the city. Due to the sprawling nature of the inner-city buildings, the guard would not be able to respond rapidly enough if any enemy force were to blow open a particular portion of the wall, and invade through the corresponding gap. A barracks much closer, if not part of the wall itself, would enable the guards to simply race along the wall until one of them made contact. The wall then would provide a vantage point as well as cover for the defenders, while the invaders would be exposed and in the open.

Cannons, as well, would augment the defenses. John took a mental image of the current shape of the walls and started to add 'bunkers,' bastions that mounted at least three cannons and enough ammunition to operate them for a time. If more ammunition or supplies were needed, the city would be facing either a full army or a siege, neither of which could easily sneak up on a prepared guardsman. Overlapping fields of fire should help counter the very low firing rate of the pre-shell cannons, and care would need to be taken to make sure that captured cannons could not be turned on the other fortifications, but that would be a simple task to do, after those other necessities.

All this preparation reminded John to investigate the level of education in this land of Albion. He'd previously pondered the general level of literacy, but what was the peak of these people's knowledge? Did they possess the intimate details of mathematics and physics? Their bridges and buildings would suggest that they at least knew the rudiments, however the applications of math apparently hadn't fully been realized yet. John severely doubted that the locals had yet even imagined the heights that unassuming mathematics could bring them, calculating trajectories and later missiles. Then again, it took Earth until Napoleon's time to understand the real power of artillery strikes before the infantry charge.

Wait, did they even _have_cannons?

Never mind the tree line, first job is to invent the cannon.

A slight quirk of the lips.

Rifles were present, Sparrow had some weird form of magic, and John couldn't predict what additional kinds of gear others would have on this world, but he doubted anyone would be able to match up to a cast-iron cannonball hurtling at them from a couple hundred yards away.

For a momentary span of time, John wistfully imagined that Johnson was here, or maybe Sam. Johnson would be leaning on that wall alongside Sparrow, a cigar in one hand while the other gestured. Of course, the picture would not be complete without his chattering; most likely, he would be regaling Sparrow with some grand story about the UNSC skyscrapers before the War, or maybe talk of the ODST's.

Johnson would be perfect for this, John mused. A combination of enduring strength, common sense, and charming charisma, Avery would soon have his recruits looking like ODST's, storming the barricades with professionalism and gung-ho esprit de corps. That was just who he was; a hard-ass drill sergeant one second, a die-hard grunt the next. He simply connected with all the troops under his command, regardless if they'd fought alongside him for a day or a year.

And John? He was a soldier, plain and simple. Granted, he could defeat Johnson quite easily, but John's battle here would not be a purely physical and tactical struggle, like the War, but a challenge of leadership and command. He'd lead Blue Team to some good victories, sure, but taking charge of an entire city?

For John had no doubt that it would eventually come to that. Mayor Albrecht appeared, at first glance, to be a power-hungry leader, and the city was lucky to have the Sheriff that seemed to actually be competent enough to balance the flaws of the Mayor.

And to put it simply enough, John didn't like the thought of relying on others here. He had a very strict order of confidence, and none of these people, save Sparrow, seemed remotely near to gaining his trust.

First and foremost came his family, both fellow Spartans and few outsiders such as Johnson who show themselves worthy of gaining their loyalty. Afterwards came his comrades, usually the higher command of the UNSC, who's job it had been to save the UNSC from complete destruction, and who had managed to execute that duty fairly well, as well as other members of the UNSC. Beyond that, all of the people John met filed into three large categories. Allies, whom he could rely on partially, such as the militia who occasionally fought alongside him; civilians, who did not fight, but who's protection was John's duty, and were mostly pretty decent people; and enemies, whom John killed.

Almost all of the people here in Bowerstone could be classified under Civilians, though John was starting to label the guards cautiously under allies. Mayor Albrecht, however, he was clear on. That man was a danger to the people of Bowerstone; it wouldn't be long before he stepped out too ambitiously and jeopardized the safety of its citizens.

And when that happened, John would protect the people, as he had before.

It was his job, after all.

* * *

Sparrow didn't notice the giant behind her, lost in her own thoughts as it were. She twirled the card around her fingers, contemplating her new task.

To collect the Hero of Strength from Oakfield… it sounded so simple, but Sparrow had a very bad feeling about this. Didn't Derek mention that the Rookwood Bridge had been destroyed? If true, that would put a major hindrance on her mission.

And what of John?

The enigmatic giant had explained his purpose clearly when they had met, so she doubted that he would still accompany her. He had to talk to the Mayor, find some way back to his home or something like that. As nice as he had been, he simply had somewhere else to be.

Sparrow sighed, and hung her head a little, gazing down at the twilight before them.

She had liked it when it wasn't as complicated.

* * *

Far away, under the lake, an old woman sat and pondered. Drips of water _tinged_ musically, echoing through the otherwise silent chambers, as Theresa contemplated her scenario.

The pale, yet not albino warrior was unexpected. After almost six hundred years of preparing the board, including eleven years of personally being involved, grooming her chosen, this _man_has to come along and upset the board.

Well, never mind. Theresa could still plan quickly, though it had been some time since she'd had to.

Lucien did not stand a chance against this man, of that Theresa had no doubt. The man may have talked oddly, with a peculiar accent, but he moved with grace and the leashed power of an experienced warrior. That first impression was only reinforced after Sparrow's account of the man's performance in the fight against Thag and his goons.

Curiously, Sparrow had said that the man was terrifyingly strong, cutting through limbs like paper. Even worse, the man had apparently had superhuman speed, dodging bullets, in addition to hitting his attackers accurately. While he had demonstrated no sign of any knowledge of Will, that did not mean he was not a Hero. Such strength and speed were the clear signs of the blood of Heroes, and the precision of his shooting symptomatic of a trained talent.

But Theresa did not know where the man could have come from. Sparrow claimed the man had appeared from a hole in the cave ceiling, but Theresa knew that such a 'lucky' event could easily be arranged.

What was more, there was simply no way to predict what the man was capable of doing next. He'd thrown off her attempt to enthrall his mind in the ancient ways with the ease of a trained Will user, yet moved in shock at the sight of Experience being absorbed by a Hero, which Sparrow had described as a humorous sight.

Theresa, obviously enough, did not trust this 'John.' Furthermore, she doubted the man's name was really John, given how reluctantly he had volunteered the information.

Combining these clues, it was fairly easy to divine that 'John' was here to alter her plans, to throw her off balance. The real question was _who_ had sent him after her. None of the old Heroes remained, and out of the remaining human cattle in the world, Lucien was the closest to challenging her, and Lucien was in her pocket. The possibility of a foreign power, perhaps Samarkandian in nature, was very real, but Theresa dismissed that quickly. Without actually living in Albion, the man or woman would be forced to resort to a local Albionite for intelligence, and her experience was that the people of Albion tended to be stupid, ugly, and unobservant. It was no wonder that they needed saving so often.

The only foreigner she felt skillful enough to oppose her would be Garth, the Samarkandian scholar. He was the brain behind Lucien's mad desire to take the Spire, resourceful enough to find the clues scattered across the world and smart enough to piece them together. But Lucien had been prodded by Theresa, and Garth's precious journals and clues had been specifically placed by Theresa so as to be found by him. Garth might be able to play the Game, but that did not mean that he was.

John himself could not be her antagonist, she felt. While the man was clearly sharp, as well as having a well-honed intuition, to be able to single her out as the most capable enemy quickly, he did not show any recognition of her. That, Theresa thought, was the 'tell,' to use a plebian phrase. Anyone who had put any intelligent thought into taking of Albion either via external forces, such as invasion, or internal forces, such as subterfuge.

There was nobody who could manipulate these events like they had been. No one with the mindset, the powers, or the connections… except…

Theresa, her problem finally resolved, stood up from her comfortable chair in the ruins of the old Guildmaster's Quarters in the underground remnants of the Guild. Sweeping out her carefully tucked robes, Theresa pulled up her hood before striding over to the dimly glowing Cullis Gate set in the masterfully worked marble. The Guildmaster's Quarters were originally s spartan, sober setting for meditation on Quests, but the degeneration of the Guild had brought around numerous changes to the Guild, the least of which was the mosaics depicting the 'Heroic' actions of her brother.

Theresa let loose a low chuckle, considering her brother as the Cullis Gate transported her to the Chamber of Fate. Heroic, maybe; foolish, more like. Even then, despite her youth, she had played Twinblade like a fiddle, and manipulated her way around the Guild like the one-eyed man in the land of the blind. Thinking back on those heady times made her smile at the nostalgia, as her shoes clicked on the worn stone of the vestiges of the once-proud Guild. What idiots! The Guild had hundreds of years to seize power, but instead was overthrown by _peasants_ with toys. Power was there for them the entire time, but they did not show to initiative to take it, though many possessed enough moral detachment to be capable.

No, the Guild deserved their end, she thought as she strode through the tunnels. But that is not to say it did not contain occasional Heroes who _did_ understand power, and how to gain it.

Theresa took one glance at the large rise of rock that blocked her movement. Beyond it, faintly visible, light poured through the ceiling.

Hmm. Theresa concentrated, channeling Will energy through her Guild Seal. If she remembered properly, then a Cullis Gate to the base of Maze's Tower was right… around… there!

With a flash, she reappeared past the twisted rock chunk, next to the blindingly bright pillar of light. Fortunately, her vision had long since been changed thanks to Twinblade, and she had been forced to adapt.

In her six hundred odd years of life, she had seen plenty… but this, however… this was something unusual.

Theresa knelt next to the hoary pool of blood and dipped a finger into it, her eyes blazing with light underneath her hood. One of her long honed abilities was to detect the Blood of the Archons, and that was how she had detected Sparrow. A combination of the presence of their Will capabilities, combined with a physical touching of the blood allowed her to identify that person's relation to the Archons of old.

With enough generations (and given how the debauched later Archons functioned), everyone in Albion had some relation to the rulers of the Old Kingdom.

This 'John,' however, did not. In fact, he had no indication of Will energy at all, a phenomenon that Theresa had never seen before.

The chest was open, she noted. The clothes were gone, and she vaguely remembered the 'John' wearing them. With a slight stab of annoyance, she considered that perhaps 'John' had _taken_ the It. While she had fixed It in place, the man had already demonstrated superhuman strength, equal to a Hero's. It was not inconceivable, then, that he had taken It.

But that was not to be, as she moved beyond the chest and saw It, firmly anchored, as always, to the bare rock face. If one looked carefully enough, they would see the remnants of the walls of Maze's quarters, where she had carefully hidden It, for irony's sake, after the Guild fell.

It instantly recognized her presence, and she felt It's hate directed at her, a mental spike of rage and pain that It intended to skewer her with. It, of course, had never realized the importance of subtlety. It sought to control via brute force, by taking possession of a host's mind, and eventually his body. It rewrote the limitations, changing a host's form until it was It's, a form long perfected during the dark times, before the Archon and his liberation.

She casually dismissed It's attempt. A pitiful effort, indicative of the long years of It's imprisonment. It'd fallen out of practice. Well, Theresa thought, time to change that. With one step to bring her closer, Theresa greeted It.

"Hello, Jack."

Rage. Pure, boiling rage.

"I suppose that you have not had many visitors, so I'll be succinct, so as not to confuse you."

_Hate you… hate you so much…_

"Oh, so you _can_ speak, after all this time."

A predator's grin, like a shark moving after it's prey. Her teeth are too white; indicative of the cleaning spells she created long ago after bemoaning the lost time. Jack's tone is moaning, in pain, as if he has a sucking chest wound.

"However, I believe you have had one _other_visitor recently."

The rage bubbles down; though it's still present, it is eclipsed by Jack's curiosity.

_Maybe… I'm curious… bitch…why you'd visit me… after _only_ five hundred years…_

"Ah, I see your sense of sarcasm is as undiminished as ever. So to get straight to the point, the intruder you no doubt met a few days ago is in my way."

_And… I should care… why?_

"Because I am freeing you."

Shock, now. The pain is ignored, as Jack's disbelief manifests itself clearly.

_Bull… shit…_

"Oh, but I'm completely serious."

_Why… on earth… would _you_ free…_me_?_

"Are you so comfortable with your imprisonment that you do not want release from this bondage?" comes the soft sardonic tones, the manipulative quality that she's perfected over time.

Jack hates it. For all he tried to work on his trickery, the arts of body language and tone of voice eluded him, inadvertently telling all who looked of Jack's real inhumanity.

_What… do _you_ get out of this, woman? Why should I believe you?_

"Because you want another shot, don't you? You have always wanted power, so why should this be any different?" Theresa chided Jack.

"The public power in this day and age resides with a man known as Lord Lucien Fairfax. Former Mayor of Bowerstone, he is currently in disgrace, and is taking control of Albion with force of arms. However, what you will most be interested in, perhaps, is the project he is devoted to, known to him as the Tattered Spire. You might remember it better as the name the Old Kingdom gave it: the Dark Tower."

Intense interest. Indeed, it would be hard to dissuade Jack, Theresa mused wryly. Exactly what she wanted.

"Lucien has always been a man of unusual drive; his original reason for researching the Spire was to return his beloved wife and child to life. Given your… track record, Lucien should be easy to control."

Satisfaction. Were Jack a cat, Theresa was sure that he would be purring with contentment now.

_I think that this is… acceptable, for now…_

"Oh, do not be fooled into thinking that this makes us allies, after all, this is merely a delay in our conflict. But then, neither of us expected anything different, did we?"

_No, we didn't..._

"Good."


End file.
